I consider my options. If she’s going to sleep, I could just wait outside for a few minutes and come back when she’s asleep.
“Please,” Alice repeats.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Do you need anything else?”
She shakes her head and smiles. “Zeke’s a good guy.”
I think about the way he protected her from the crowds of people, how calming his voice had been. “He is.”
Zeke’s sitting out in the corridor, texting. “How’s Alice?” he asks when I shut the door. For once, the hallway isn’t teeming with people and part of me just wants to sink down beside him. Instead, I offer him my hand and help him up.
“How did you know what to do?”
He holds the door open for me as we walk back into the night air. “My sister also suffers from anxiety and has issues with crowds. I just talked to Alice the way I usually talk to Olivia.”
“What’s your sister like?”
It’s dark outside but I can tell he’s smiling. “She’s awesome. She’s a writer and her books are brilliant. And I’d say that even if she wasn’t my sister.”
“Would I know any of them?”
He names an author whose name I recognize from the spines of books in bookstores, but I’ve never read. I make a mental note to pick up a few of her books when I get a break from French. If I get a break from French.
“Does she still have anxiety issues?”
He shrugs. “I don’t see her as much as I’d like to because she lives outside of DC. But I’m sure most people wouldn’t know it to see her. She’s pretty and successful, has a great boyfriend who she’s been with forever. She seems to manage her book tours fine. So, maybe?”
We reach downtown just as Zeke’s stomach starts growling. “They have food at Chutes,” I assure him.
Zeke grimaces. “Any chance I could convince you to go for pizza first? I can’t deal with ten-dollar nachos. I’d rather get a few slices for that money.”
“Pizza it is, then.” We make our way to the place where Alice and I went the first day, and push through the crowd of a dozen guys who all seem to be leaving as we come in.
I don’t usually have issues with crowds, but even I feel like I can’t breathe with this crowd of linebacker wannabes. Until Zeke’s hand comes to rest on my lower back and my nervousness dissipates.
“I’m good for at least four slices,” he says when we finally get to the counter. “Want to share a small pizza?”
Veux-tu partager une petite pizza?
“Have we been speaking in French all this time?” I ask, as Zeke pays and grabs the hot pie.
“I think so,” he says in English, and then shakes his head. “Je pense que oui.”
According to the clock above the pizza oven, it’s almost nine, which means it’s been a full hour since we left Alice. “Too bad we already did our ten hours or we could have counted this.”
If I wasn’t watching closely, I would have missed the way his face drops for a split second. “Wait, I didn’t mean . . .”
But he’s already regrouped and the smile he wears now is nothing like the smile from before. “How about we take this to go and we can eat on the way to Chutes?”
“Zeke . . .” I try, putting my hand on his arm.
“No, you’re right. We should totally have been keeping track. Do you remember any of the words we used? We could just try to re-create the list.”
“We don’t need to. This wasn’t about French class.”
Ce n’etait pas pour notre cours.
He opens the door but this time doesn’t hold it for me. He walks right through, and I have to thrust my hand out to block it from slamming in my face.
Zeke folds two pieces together and shoves it into his mouth. “Want some?” he grunts. “Truth is, if we don’t need to speak French, we should talk in English. It’s like we have French class Stockholm syndrome.”
No, no, no, no, no. Because things are different in English. We’re different.
“Arrête,” I plead. “Je suis désolée.” I’m sorry.
Zeke stops, but it’s only to pull out napkins from his pocket and wipe the tomato sauce from his chin. We’re almost at Chutes and he’s still not looking at me. “Have a piece,” he says, grabbing another two slices and holding out the box with only the last two slices.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Your choice.” Zeke shrugs. He hands the box to two guys walking out of the coffee shop. “Free pizza.”
They watch Zeke shove his two slices in his mouth, and grab the box. “Cool. Thanks, man.”
“No worries.”
Zeke finishes chewing, opens the door, and then glances at me. “You coming?”
I want to say no. I want to say, Ce n’est pas ce que je voulais dire, I didn’t mean it that way. I want to say écoute-moi, listen to me, arrête, stop.
I want to go home.
I want him to apologize for being an ass.
But I follow him inside instead. And not because I don’t want to walk back to campus by myself.
ELEVEN
CHUTES IS FAR LESS CROWDED now than it was a couple of hours ago, but our group is still gathered in the back. Zeke moves to the corner of a red plaid couch, a perch that allows him to be on a couch full of guys and still within close proximity to a group of girls. I’m not even sure he’s paying any attention to the game by the time I get through the crowds at the door. It looks to me like his entire focus is on a group of three girls with very, very short skirts.
“Abby! You’re here!” Devorah yells out. “You’re on our team. We’re getting creamed, and we need more girl power.”
She’s squished in the middle of the couch with Daphne and Mel. Margaret and Lynn are leaning against the back of the couch. Two psych students, two biochem students, and an econ major. I look back at Zeke; he’s grinning in that I’m not actually happy kind of way.
Bring. It. On.
“What’s the score?” I ask, perching myself on the couch corner farthest from Zeke. Or perhaps with the best across-the-table view of Stephie trying her hardest to flick her hair into his face. Lucky for her, Zeke seems to have no problem with that.
“We’re up against team one,” Daphne says. Her jet-black hair is covered by a kerchief that on anyone else would look dowdy, but on her looks hip. I have no idea why they want me on their team; we’ve never spoken before, but given the way my blood is boiling watching Stephie’s finger slowly move up and down Zeke’s arm, I need to let out some energy. And competition is my middle name.
“What place are we in?”
“Fourth.”
Merde.
“Okay, how does it work?” I paste a smile on. If it weren’t for our RA Priya sitting at a small table to the left of our enclave, I’m pretty sure someone would’ve sneaked in some booze, and I would’ve been more than happy to take part.
“We’re in the final round,” Mel says. “So it’s a face-off. There are six colors of cards, each one a different category. Because they’re the team in the lead, they get to choose the category of questions you both have to answer.”
“How’s that even fair?”
“It’s called Trivia Night, Asshole style.” Mel holds up what looks to be an extra-large iced latte. “Happy times.”
“What’s at stake?”
The team across from us seems to be conferring but I’m just watching Zeke and Stephie. Stephie, who is standing between Zeke’s open knees and now both hands are trailing up and down his arms. It’s hard to tell if the retching sounds I’m making are purely in my head or if anyone can hear them.
“—takes all.”
“Wait, what?”
Devorah shakes her head. “Winner takes all. Final round, one on one. Got it?”
I shrug. Great, I’ll cheer for whomever I need to.
“And you’re up.”
What? I whirl around to face the group on the couch that is trying very hard not to laugh.
“You’re the only one who ha
sn’t gone up yet.”
“But I don’t even know—”
“He’ll decide the category and you’ll each grab half the deck of cards. Their guy asks you questions, you ask him questions. Sometimes you’re allowed to make up your own questions but as the team in first place, they get to decide which rules we use.”
“No, I can’t—”
“It’s no big deal,” Daphne says, grabbing my belt hook and propelling me forward. “It’s a dumb game and we’re in last place. I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.”
Given that I’m wishing I was asleep, it seems a little ironic.
“Fine.” I let them position me in front of the couch and twirl me back around. Which is the moment when I see Zeke take the center spot in front of his couch.
Merde, merde, merde.
Let the games begin.
When Zeke turns and sees that I’m his opponent, he looks confused for a moment, like he doesn’t remember I’ve spent most the evening with him and can’t imagine what I’m doing there. And then there’s the smirk. Right side of lip higher than the left, head cocked to one side.
I might not have cared about this game before, but now it’s all on the line.
“Okay, boys’ team gets to decide the category,” Stephie purrs. If she’s supposed to be our judge, I fear the rules. Because she definitely doesn’t want to make out with me.
Zeke’s eyebrows rise and then he flattens his grin.
Merde.
“Hmmm,” he fake ponders, one finger on his chin. “How about . . . baseball trivia.”
It’s not a question.
My eyes widen and the look of glee on his face tells me he totally misinterpreted my look.
“Uh, okay.” I nod, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. There’s nothing in the world he could have chosen that I would have done better with. Let’s make this fun. “Really? Baseball?” I gulp.
Overkill?
Zeke’s grin widens as he picks up the red deck of cards.
Not overkill at all. I grab the matching one on our side.
“But how about we play with the rule that we can make up our own questions?”
He’s throwing me a bone. And simultaneously ensuring that I’ll trounce his ass.
I nod, trying to look somewhat panicked. Who needs booze? I have payback, and it’s going to be beautiful.
“Which team has the longest stretch since they last won the World Series?” he starts.
“Uh . . .” I blink rapidly. This is beyond a lowball. He’s basically rolling it over to me. And it’s cruel.
“The Cubs,” I whisper. No World Series since 1908. Does he think this is funny? Or is he being deliberately mean?
I pick up the cards in front of me. “Ask the hardest one,” he boasts.
There are three choices, but I know the answer to even the hardest one. Whatever. I read the question slowly, like the words are difficult for me to string together. “Who has the record for the most consecutive games played?”
“Uh . . . Cal Ripkin?” he replies, clearly uncertain. Even though I know it to be correct, I go through the motions of turning the card over and nodding slowly, like it takes me a while to find the right answer.
“Who does the designated hitter replace?” he asks.
I scrunch my nose. At a certain point I need to ratchet up my answers but not yet. I want a little more fun.
“The pitcher?”
“Nice!” He smiles.
“Who has the record for most stolen bases in modern baseball?” I pretend to be reading, but I’m making up the question, ramping him up. I would have given it to him had he said Hugh Nicols, who actually holds the record from 1887, but the correct answer in the modern era of baseball is Ricky Henderson. His guess of Vince Coleman isn’t a bad one, but it’s still wrong.
I allow the glee to slip into my voice.
And then begins a light volley of back-and-forth questions. I intentionally lose some to keep the score close, making it clear that my wins are mostly good guesses. Which they aren’t. They’re years of reading the almanac while trying to fall asleep.
“Who is the Curse of the Bambino referring to?”
I pause. At this point, I can’t understand why he doesn’t realize he’s being played, because I’m really not that strong an actress. But apparently the hubris of a jock talking to a sports-hating girl is powerful.
“Um, isn’t it the guy who that chocolate bar is named after?” My brothers would kill me for playing dumb like this. “Babe Ruth?”
“So, you know a little about baseball, despite all the hating.” Zeke smirks.
I shrug. “A little.”
He bites his lip. “Let’s make this interesting. How about a bet?”
“Ooooh!” The guys behind him clamor and high-five like they’re still in middle school.
“Like what?” I haven’t even taken out the big guns. He thinks he has me but he has no idea.
“C’mere.” He leans across the table and I do the same. The hooting behind both of us provides the necessary cover for his comments. “If I win, I get a kiss.”
That last word is so surprising, I teeter and almost smash into the table. But Zeke’s hand grabs my arm, steadying me.
“Um—” He wants to kiss me? He wants to—
“Scared of a little kiss?” he taunts quietly, the heat of his breath in my ear.
“Why do you want to kiss me?” For the first time since we walked out of the pizza place, I’m genuinely confused.
“That’s my business.” We’re standing so close to each other, I can’t read his eyes. What’s his game? Does he really want to kiss me? Is he trying to embarrass me?
“What if I win?” I swallow with difficulty.
“What do you want?”
Merde. Merde. Merde. Effing merde. The crowd is getting restless and any moment he’s going to call the whole thing off.
“I get to choose all the movies we watch for French.”
His eyebrows tighten. “That’s all you want? To choose the movies?”
“Maybe I like the idea of forcing you to watch French romantic comedies.”
“There’s not much of a chance you’re going to beat me.” Zeke laughs. “But let’s make it a little better for you. You get to choose the movies, and something else.”
“I get all your baseball shirts for the rest of the program.”
“What do you mean?”
I smirk. This I actually want. “No more baseball shirts or caps for you this summer, even when we aren’t together. You hand them all over to me and I’ll give them back to you at the end of the summer.”
“Come on! Let’s wrap up this game.”
He doesn’t know what he’s up against. But I’m this close to not having to deal with his extensive collection of baseball clothing. Game. On.
“Who is the only pitcher to lead both the National League and American League in shutouts, in the same season?” I ask, no longer pretending to be reading the card.
His eyes widen, but then he shakes it off. “CC Sabathia.”
I nod.
“What were the New York Yankees franchise originally known as?” he asks.
“They started as the Baltimore Orioles.” I smile. Baseball 101. But when he starts to correct me, I hold up a finger. “And two years later they moved to New York and became the Highlanders and then the Yankees.”
His eyebrows rise and this time his nod has some admiration built in.
“Who holds the record for the most triples?” I ask.
“Sam Crawford.”
“What’s the rarest event in a baseball game?” he asks.
Trick question. “Not a perfect game, but an unassisted triple play.”
“Who holds the record for home runs?” I ask.
“Barry Bonds. If you consider his record still valid despite the doping. Otherwise Hank Aaron.”
“How can seven batters come up to bat in a single inning without a run being scored?” I ask. I watch the
shock settle over his face. Game, set, match.
His teammates are busy counting trying to figure it out. It’s not hard to get to six. It’s the seventh one that gets you.
In a move that almost makes me laugh, I watch Stephie counting on her fingers. No, Stephie, unless you know a ton about obscure sports rules, you won’t get it.
And then something odd happens. As Zeke bites down on the side of his lip, clearly trying to calculate how it could possibly happen, I realize that I don’t want him to lose. As competitive as I am, this is one matchup that I want to lose. I want him to kiss me. I press my lips together when I realize I’m mirroring his actions, my teeth grazing the corner of my lip as well. As Zeke’s gaze draws over me, he focuses on my lips too, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing. All of a sudden I know how much he wants this and I know how much I do too. I wish we could just flip over the game and declare it a draw and pull a fire alarm so everyone else will leave. I’m done with this game, and I don’t care about the baseball shirts or choosing movies. I don’t even care about being the smarter player, shocking them all with my extensive knowledge of obscure baseball trivia.
I want to kiss him.
And so when, after a long moment, he looks at me and says: “Are you sure you know the answer to the question?” I do the unthinkable. I pause and pretend to think, count off on my fingers, and then I shake my head.
“I know it but I can’t remember.”
Which is a lie. It’s a lie. I can’t believe I’m about to lose this round, because it’s the single best trivia question I have and I know the damn answer. I’ve known it since I was seven.
“Oooooh!” the guys on the couch shout. “Busted!”
“Ask another question,” Zeke says, but his face is still, and I can’t tell if he knows.
Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe—
But his lip curls up, just the tiniest amount, and I know. I know he knows.
So I think fast to find him a question that’s just as hard. Make him work for it. “Who is the only player to have hit two grand slams in a single inning?”
It’s only because I’m watching that I see what happens. His eyes widen and his smile inches slightly higher and then drops. “Drat,” he whispers, but I can see the curl of a smile that nobody else is seeing.
The Distance from A to Z Page 9